


Purrtinent Objections

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Kittens, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al has his eyes on a kitten.  Roy's grateful he still <em>has</em> both eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purrtinent Objections

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday present for [Hales](http://alkahestic.tumblr.com/)! ♥ ……because barftastic OT3 fluff, that's why.
> 
> This is another one of those inexplicable post-Brotherhood AUs where everything is how I like it because I said so. :'D Al got so sassy so fast I just… let him. I wasn't feeling brave enough to step in front of _that_ freight train. O__o
> 
> Warnings include: E X T R E M E amounts of fluff; rush-written, rush-edited, and hurled in your face by yours truly

Ed’s head lifts before Roy’s even processed the extremely faint scratching emanating from somewhere down the front hall.  It’s rather amazing how the elder Elric can stay planted on the floor beside the couch, engrossed in an immensely dense tome of obscure alchemical theory, for several hours at a stretch without moving anything but his fingertips and his eyes—and then the instant Alphonse’s feet touch the front step, he surfaces into reality again to pay attention.

At least he doesn’t seem to expect either of them to get up.  The gently-crackling fire at Roy’s back and the slow, sinking seduction of the couch cushions, coupled with a perfect vantage for watching the light play over the side of Ed’s face, is more than Roy thinks he could bear to sacrifice just now.

“Hey, kid,” Ed calls when the scuffling resolves into Alphonse stepping through the door and bending double to untie his shoes.  A fond wish: if Trisha Elric were still alive, Roy would clasp her hand and fall to his knees and thank her with every word of gratitude he could muster for producing not one, but _two_ gorgeous blond boys with incomparably great asses.

“Hey,” Al says, shucking his coat off next and then padding down the hall towards them.

“You have fun?” Ed asks.

“Yeah,” Al says.  “We had a really nice time.”  He sits down next to Ed, close enough to lean his right arm and shoulder in against Ed’s left.  “She’s got so much personality.”  He glances up at Roy.  “Let me guess—her dad was just as much of a troublemaker back in the day.”

“I think he would object to the terminology,” Roy says.  “‘Overall benevolent proponent of mostly-harmless mischief’, perhaps.”

Ed snorts, then focuses on Al again.  “So what’d you guys do?”

“We went to the animal shelter,” Al says, and Ed’s whole body tenses at once, “and petted all the cats.  She’s still really into photography, too, so we did a lot of that.”

Roy reaches out and runs his fingers through Ed’s ponytail—it won’t escape Al’s notice, but Al will have felt Ed’s muscles tighten anyway.  He acknowledges _that_ by extending his arm just a little further to stroke his hand through Al’s hair next.

The individual strands of Ed’s hair are so thick that the fall of it is positively luscious—it parts and rolls and unfurls like waves, like cream, like molten gold.  Al’s hairs are finer; his is light, airy—like sheaves of wheat tickling at the palm of a hand passed over the endless rows of tails.  Ed’s is silken; Al’s is soft.

He wonders, sometimes, when he lets himself, what the hell it is they see in _him_.

“So—what,” Ed says.  He’s still so damn transparent sometimes, wearing his heart on his sleeve and speaking straight from it.  Roy tries to savor that—the purity of it.  Even after all these years, even after all of the indescribable trials they’ve piled upon him, Ed is still so absolutely disingenuous that he can’t help putting his feelings on display.  “You pick out one you liked?”

“Sort of,” Al says.

Ed’s jaw tightens as he scowls.  “The hell does that mean?”

Al shifts—closer against Ed, as it happens—to reach into his trouser pocket and extract a polaroid photograph.  He offers it to his brother.

“Her name is Applesauce,” he says.

Ed takes the picture, scrutinizing it in Roy’s line of sight—Roy can just make out a pale gray fluffball behind the metal lattice of the door of a cage.

“Says she doesn’t have a name,” Ed says, pointing at what looks like a label above the cat’s head.

“She responds to Applesauce,” Al says.  “We tried it.”

“She doesn’t even look like applesauce,” Ed says.  “Why the hell would you call a gray cat ‘Applesauce’?  That’s not a name for a cat.”

“Is now,” Al says.

“Should’ve called her something good,” Ed says, and his shoulders move so slowly that it’s like he’s hunching in slow-motion.  “Like—I dunno.  What’s gray and scary and shit?  Gargoyle.  Demon Teeth.  Fog of Despair.  Typhoon.  Fucked if I know.”

“Well, I called her Applesauce,” Al says calmly.  He holds his hand out for the picture, and Ed gives it back.  “Can I get her?”

“The fuck do I care?” Ed asks, although every line of his body is singing a very different tune, loudly and clearly with a full brass band.  “It’s Mustang’s house.”

“Based on the preponderance of your socks and similar miscellanea that have been abandoned on my furniture,” Roy says, “I would venture to say that it’s only _my_ house by the most literal definition of property ownership at this point.”

At least Ed un-tenses slightly as he turns an incredulous look on Roy.  “…what?”

“See?” Al says.  “A cat wouldn’t change anything.  We’d barely even notice it.  It’d probably get covered by a projectile sock.”

“ _What_?” Ed says.

“Never mind,” Roy says.  “I would like to remain an entirely neutral party in this discussion.”

“There’s no such thing as an entirely neutral party,” Ed says.  “ _You_ say that.”

“It is always an unremitting delight to debate with you,” Roy says.

“It’s not a debate when you’re wrong,” Ed says.  “It’s just you being wrong.  Which I should be used to by now, but apparently—”

“Before you two get into it,” Al says, “and then rope me into the makeup sex—how about if we gave Applesauce a scary middle name?  Then would you be okay with having her around?”

Ed eyes him.  “Cats are a lot of work.”

“Not really,” Al says.

“Well, _you_ can clean up the puke,” Ed says.  “And the litter box.  And the wads of fur.  And feed it.  And get the dead birds and little forest animals dropped in your face.  And—”

“How is that different from taking care of you?” Al asks.  “Other than the litter box, I’d say you gave me all the practice I c—”

“Fuck you, Al!” Ed says, scrambling upright.  “What the hell do you need a cat for, then, if you think _I’m_ such a lousy fucking pet?”

Al gazes at him without blinking for at least fifteen seconds.  Roy knows because that’s how long it’s been since he breathed.

“I never said you were a lousy pet,” Al says, so deadpan Roy can’t believe there’s any oxygen left in the room for him to start dragging in carefully.  “I think that with a little house-training, you’ll be just fine to introduce to other anim—”

Ed dives for him.

One of the powerful advantages of this trifecta arrangement is that there’s always a peacekeeper whenever two of the involved parties are engaging in what Roy outwardly calls a _tiff_ or a _lovers’ spat_ or something charming that downplays the intensity—inwardly, he uses the term _knock-down drag-out gloves-off fight, possibly to the death if nothing intervenes_.

The disadvantage of that advantage is that Roy’s the one who always has to get literally between the Elric brothers when they’re going for each other’s throats.

This isn’t the first time he’s sustained a black eye in the line of duty, and it probably won’t be the last.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says for perhaps the twentieth time as Roy presses the little bag of ice cubes to his eye socket and fervently hopes for the best.  If anyone could convince tomorrow’s room full of generals that their suspiciously Ed’s-automail-elbow-shaped injury was the result of perfectly natural causes, it would be him, but that doesn’t mean he’s looking forward to it.

“It’s really all right,” he says, because Ed’s started clinging to his arm, and at times like this, you can actually watch the way the guilt accumulates like a physical weight, swelling in Ed’s chest—it drags at his shoulders and his spine and the corners of his mouth, and he starts to… well, shrink.  Even the impossibly stubborn upflick in his hair droops when he gets to this point.

“Don’t you have that meeting tomorrow?” Al asks, and the trace of hesitation in his voice belies the fact that he doesn’t feel much better than Edward does.

“I’ll tell them it was incurred fighting an enemy of the state,” Roy says.  “I’m sure I’ll be lauded as a hero.  They’ll probably promote me.”

“You should just say ‘You should see the other guy’ and leave it at that,” Ed says.  “Always works for me.”  He pauses.  “Except with Winry.  And Al.  And you.  And… well, I mean, you could probably get ’em to buy it.”

The ice is so cold that Roy’s skin has long since begun to tingle, but he can just feel the throb of the burgeoning bruise underneath it—he doesn’t quite dare to lift it off yet.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

Each Elric pats one of his shoulders solemnly, and Roy breathes an inward sigh of relief.

  


* * *

  


Roy hands Al a mug of coffee and earns a beaming smile for the pains he took to add the perfect quantity of cream.

“So,” he says as Al basks in the steam.  Neither of them casts a glance towards the stairs to see if Sleeping Bedhead has risen yet, but they both know why Roy’s risked starting a conversation before any coffee has been had.

“So,” Al says.

“Applesauce,” Roy says.

“Applesauce,” Al says.

Sometimes Roy really does have to pause and reflect on the fundamental absurdity of human existence.

“I’m still working on why he’s so upset,” Al says, blowing gently on the surface of his coffee.  Roy is determined not to get distracted by the positively exquisite shape of his mouth.  “Ed _loves_ animals.  He always makes a big fuss about it, but you can just see it from the way he looks at them.  I don’t know why he’s acting like this.  There’s got to be something psychological underneath it, but getting a straight answer out of him about stuff like that makes pulling teeth look easy.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Roy says.

“Is that a first?” Al asks.

Roy gives him a sardonic look, and Al returns a cheeky grin.

“You have your big, scary meeting today, don’t you?” he asks.  At Roy’s nod, he gestures towards the empty stove.  “Can I make you some breakfast?”

“Better not,” Roy says.  “Whether or not I go in with an empty stomach, I may leave with one.  The shiner is going to be enough to explain without vomiting all over the council table from the nerves.”

“I didn’t know you did nerves,” Al says.

“Tragic but true,” Roy says.  “Sometimes it’s a good thing—I seem to think faster on my feet when there’s a lot at stake.  My pet theory is that the adrenaline helps my brain make connections faster.”

Al’s left eyebrow arcs very, very slowly.  “Occasionally you are so much like Brother that a whole lot of things make sense.”

“Thank you,” Roy says, meaning it.

Al chews like his lip.  Roy strives once again not to lose the thread of the conversation in the process of staring at it.

“What do you think it is?” Al asks.  “I know you’ve got a theory by now.”

“Still assessing the evidence,” Roy says.

The lip-chewing segues seamlessly into a pout that makes Al resemble Ed more than the hair and eyes ever will.  “You don’t have to play it close to the chest with me, Roy.”

“I’m being honest,” Roy says, and it’s mostly true.

“Okay,” Al says, so dryly that Roy expects the wallpaper to curl.  He sighs, then sips his coffee.  “I was thinking maybe he still feels like they’re off-limits from the old days, when we were on the road all the time, and it used to be hard enough to take care of _ourselves_ , but… Brother’s more flexible than that.  And then I was thinking maybe he doesn’t feel like he’s fit for having a pet, but that doesn’t quite seem right either.”  The way his eyes gleam when he’s thinking—tearing through the information like a thresher with a sheaf of wheat—makes Roy’s guts warm until his fingertips tingle with the heat.  “I’m still—”

There’s a scuffle on the stairs.

“—and anyway, I don’t think the solution is really in the _angles_ with alkahestry, which is terribly curious—I’m going to look into it.  May’s letters are a bit difficult to parse for any scientific content through the flood of compliments and the various words she found in the thesaurus for ‘prince’, but—”

“Fuck,” Ed says as he stumbles through the doorway, followed closely by “G’morning.”

“Hi, Brother,” Al says.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Roy says.

Ed stares at him like he’s a cretin.

Al coughs into his hand to cover the laugh, then beams at Ed.  “Let me get your coffee, Brother.”

Ed’s eyes narrow.  “You’re just suckin’ up so I’ll quit bitching about your cat.”

“Our cat,” Al says.

Ed’s eyes narrow a little further.

“If I really wanted to suck up,” Al says, “I would _suck up_ , if you know what I mean.”

Ed’s eyes instantly widen to the approximate size of appetizer plates.  “S’too fuckin’ early for that shit, Al.”

“It’s never too early,” Al says.  “Haven’t you heard of morning sex?”

Ed shoves his bangs back off of his forehead, scrubbing his fingers through his hair.  “Haven’t you heard of don’t-even-fuckin’-talk-to-me-before-coffee?”

“You have made sure, over the years,” Al says, “that I am painfully aware of that phenomenon.”

Ed blinks.  “Yeah.  So—yeah.”

Roy hands Al the mug with the stylized dragon on it, and Al goes to the coffee pot to fill it.  “Don’t hurt yourself, Brother,” he says.

Ed takes the mug Al holds out to him, squinting suspiciously again.  “What?”

Roy gives Al a reprimanding look.  “It’s not very fair to harass him while he’s uncaffeinated.”

“All is fair in love, war, and pet adoption,” Al says, completely seriously.

“Fuck,” Ed says, shifting the mug to the automail hand and opening the palm of the other for the five sugar cubes Roy proffers.  “We still talkin’ about that?”

“Are we not?” Al asks slowly.

Ed drops the sugar into his coffee, then switches hands again so that he can stir it with his metal index finger.  He looks intently at the tiny whirlpool around the steel as he speaks: “Just get the fucking cat if it’ll make you happy, Al.”

Ah.

“Okay,” Al says cheerfully.  “Thanks, Brother!”

Ed drowns a mumbled response in his first sip of coffee.

Then he lowers the cup, slaps his left hand over his mouth, and hisses, “ _Shit_!” at the way he just burnt his tongue.

Roy grabs down a glass for water, fills it cold from the tap, and hands it over to him.

“This fuckin’ week,” Ed mutters.

“This is exactly why we need a kitten in the house,” Al says.  “For times of great distress.”

Ed turns a dulled glower on Roy.  “Aren’t you gonna be late?”

“Probably,” Roy says.

“So _go_ already,” Ed says.

“Yes, sir,” Roy says.

Ed’s cutting riposte gets lost in the coffee again.

Roy pats the top of the bright yellow head on his way out the door and earns a muffled growl.

  


* * *

  


He straggles back in a little after eight, dazed and absolutely famished.  The first thing he notices is the positively transcendent smells emanating from the kitchen.  The second is the silhouette of a boy sprawled out on the floor of the living room, playing with a tiny ball of eager animal energy.

Roy’s feet had been headed directly for the food, but he diverts them onto a course down the hall instead.

The kitten cowers away from him until he crouches and slowly offers a crooked hand, which she stretches forward to sniff.

“Hello, Applesauce,” he says.

Al looks at him like he’s made of moonbeams.  “How was your meeting?  Or is it better not to ask?”

“I survived,” Roy says.  “Everything else is incidental.”

“That’s a nice way of thinking about it,” Al says, “but kittens are much more than _incidental_.”  He scratches with a gentle fingertip behind one disproportionately large ear.  “Aren’t you, Applesauce?  Aren’t you anti-incidental?”

Roy lowers his voice.  “How is the large, blond kitten taking it?”

“Not sure,” Al says, stroking all the way down Applesauce’s spine.  “He was teaching today, and then he came back with a bag full of cat toys and spent about fifteen minutes fawning over her while talking about what a pain she was, and then he disappeared into your study.”

Not unlike the house in general, it’s a bit ridiculous to refer to the room as anything other than _Ed’s_ —his hideout, his office, his library, his napping space, or his sanctuary, depending on his mood.  Occasionally he deigns to share it with Roy, but usually he looks sort of scandalized at the suggestion.

“I’ll go check on him,” Roy says.

“You haven’t had any dinner,” Al says.  “You’ll get cranky.”

Roy blinks.  “I beg y—”

“Why don’t you have some food,” Al says, perfectly calmly, “and _then_ go check on him?”

Roy opens his mouth to argue and then—rather inconveniently—remembers the damning ratio of times that he and Ed have picked fights with each other before a meal as compared to after one.

“It’s a wonder I even remember how to give orders,” he says.  “Given that all I do around here is follow them.”

Al favors him with a beatific smile.  “What a pity that some strange, supernatural force is compelling you to listen to our rational advice against your will.”

Roy frowns at him.

Al just coos at the kitten.

Roy is most certainly not keeping a tally of how many times he and Alphonse Elric have verbally outmaneuvered one another, and Al is most certainly not winning.

He gets up and goes to the kitchen, and the lasagna is still warm.

  


* * *

  


Ed responds at the third knock with a less-than-inspiring “ _What_?”

Roy opens the door to the— _the_ —study enough to put his head in.  “Did you get something to eat?”

“That’s a stupid question,” Ed says.

Roy knows for a fact that his facial expression doesn’t change a whit, but Ed’s shoulders slump, and his face twists up with the remorse.

“Sorry,” he says.  “I mean—it is a stupid question, but it’s a _nice_ stupid question, so—yeah.  I did.  Thanks.”  He chances a glance up at Roy’s face, and Roy smiles for him so he’ll know he’s forgiven.  “How shit was your meeting-thing?”

“Pretty shit,” Roy says.  “But I held my own, so that’s something.”

“Yeah,” Ed says.  “Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

Roy watches him for a second.  Ed shuffles some papers and then eyes him back.

“Are you all right?” Roy asks.

“Of course I am,” Ed says.  “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”

“Just wondering,” Roy says.

“Well, you can just wonder somewhere else,” Ed says.  “I’m fuckin’ beat, so I’m going to bed.”

The earliness of this declaration would be more disconcerting if Ed wasn’t in the habit of reading for several hours following his arrival on the mattress, to the point that the term ‘bedtime’ has functionally lost its meaning.

“All right,” Roy says mildly as Ed gathers up his papers and stands.

“I mean it,” Ed says, as if there was any doubt of that.  “Watch me.”

Roy steps aside and holds the door for him, and he mutters a “Thank you” before he goes storming down the hall to the master bedroom.  The large book he collected, as well as several of the papers and a well-chewed pen, get deposited on the pillow; the rest hit the nightstand, and then Ed starts into the bathroom.

Roy follows him over and leans against the doorway as he drags the tie out of his hair.

“So,” Roy says.

“Hate when you start sentences like that,” Ed says.  “Presages some bullshit.”

“You have such a way with words,” Roy says.  “So—what’s so wrong with the kitten?”

Ed, who has just reached the sink, turns just enough to scowl at him intently.  “Do you like your curtains, Mustang?”

“Yes,” Roy says, refusing to be thrown by the non-sequitur; “although I know that you think they’re an abomination, so I’m not sure where this sudden concer—”

“It’s not my fault it looks like you did your decorating before Marcoh got your sight back,” Ed says.  “And not in an avant-garde way; in a ‘What the hell were you thinking, Mustang?’ kind of way.”  He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.  “ _Point_ is, a cat’d shred those things to fucking ribbons faster’n you could say ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’”  His frown deepens.  “And vomit on the bed.  And shed _everywhere_.  And yowl in the middle of the night.  And—”

“The cat is not going to replace you,” Roy says.

Ed stops short—well, stops normal, in his case—for a full two seconds before he manages to wrangle a scowl back onto his face.  “S’not what we’re talkin’ about, Mustang.”

“Yes, it is,” Roy says.  “Do you really think Al is going to forget about you just because he has a new—” He bites back ‘little’.  “—hellraiser to love?”

Ed looks at him for a long, long moment, worrying at his bottom lip.

“Well,” he says, slowly, sounding like he’s picking out the words, “he’s already got—a lot of things.  People.  Hellraisers.  Which need his attention.  Including—you.”  He turns away, yanking the top drawer of the cabinet beneath the sink.  “And you’re… important.”  Somehow he manages to _bang_ the tube of toothpaste down on the countertop.  “You’re—somethin’ else.  And Al knows that.  But… I mean, y’know, _me_ …”

“Edward,” Roy says.  “Alphonse thinks you are, without a doubt, the single most wonderful individual that the whole of humanity has ever produced.”  He steps forward and draws just a few fingers through the thickest part of Ed’s hair.  “For my part, I find it very difficult to disagree with him on that point.”

Ed flushes to the tips of his ears.  “Well, both of you are batshit, so if that was supposed to be encouraging or something, better luck next time.”

“Ah,” Roy says, scratching just once, very gently, at the base of Ed’s skull in the way that makes his eyes roll back.  “Pity.  I suppose I’ll have to try harder.”  He starts for the door, and then he pauses to make one addendum over his shoulder.  “I mean it, though.  I know for a fact that Alphonse has room in his heart for both you and a kitten.”

Ed somehow succeeds in picking up his toothbrush _aggressively_.  The man is a miracle.  “What the fuck does size have to do with it?” he asks, pointing the brush at Roy in a way that would be comical if Ed had not felled stronger men with less at his disposal.  “Nobody was talkin’ about _room_ , Mustang.  Nobody was talking about relative size, or how tiny fuzzballs are, or—don’t you get that fucking _no-of-course-I’m-not-laughing_ face with me!  Fuck you!”

“That sounds delightful,” Roy says.  “Shall we plan on half an hour from now?”

Ed shifts the toothbrush to the left hand to make sure Roy gets an eyeful of the automail middle finger, which apparently counts for more emphasis than the flesh one.  “You’re gonna get another chance to see how fucking _small_ I am when I beat that smug-ass grin off your fucking f—”

“Brush your teeth, love,” Roy says lightly, and he can’t help reveling in the way his stomach heats at Ed’s speechlessness.  “Your smile’s worth conquering worlds for; you should take care of it.”

“Bastard,” Ed gets out, but he isn’t quite fast enough to duck before Roy can see the color rising in his cheeks again.  “ _Fine_.”

He slams the door in Roy’s face.

That went about as well as it could have, really.

Roy saunters down the stairs again in search of Alphonse, who—rather predictably—is still lolling around on the living room floor, dancing a piece of string in front of Applesauce’s eagerly-batting paws.

“Did you fix it?” Al asks.

“I laid the groundwork,” Roy says, suppressing a wince at the way his body protests when he lowers himself to the carpet.  “You may have to finish the job, but the foundation should be stable.”

“Thank you,” Al says, shifting up to grasp a handful of Roy’s collar so fluidly that the motion itself is almost as breathtaking as the kiss.

“You’re very welcome,” Roy says when he’s somehow found the impetus to separate their mouths again.  “You’re welcome to anything if you always express your gratitude like that.”

“Brother’s right,” Al says.

Roy blinks the obvious question.

“You’re _way_ too smooth,” Al says.  “It’s a good thing you’re a politician.”

Roy mimes a knife to the heart, complete with a little gesture for a trail of blood.

“He’s also right about the melodrama,” Al says.  “I wasn’t sure; _he’s_ so histrionic it’s really hard to tell.”

“The both of you are absolutely merciless,” Roy says.

“You need honest men around you,” Al says, scooping Applesauce up into both arms.  She kneads at his sweater, and he scratches a fingertip under her chin.  “Particularly in your bed, I think.”

“That,” Roy says, “is a platform I will wholeheartedly endorse.”

Al looks up at him with enormous, plaintive eyes.  “Can Applesauce sleep in the bed?”

“I’m not sure your brother would appreciate that,” Roy says.

“Don’t worry,” Al says.  “I have a plan.”

Living with the Elric brothers mandates a constant state of messily-combined fear and awe.

Roy wouldn’t have it any other way.

When they get upstairs, Ed’s already curled up on the side of the bed that he’s long since claimed as his dominion.  He’s pretending very hard to be so engrossed in his book that he doesn’t notice them.

“Hi, Brother,” Al says, utterly undaunted.  He crosses the room and deposits the kitten—which flails its tiny limbs en route—into Ed’s lap.  “Snuggle her for me for a minute?”

Ed sputters, but Al’s already halfway to the bathroom before he fights out, “—the fuck, Al?”

“Roy,” Al says, “come brush your teeth with me.”

Roy swears he used to know how to say _no_ once.

Well—maybe not to blonds.

Al shuts the bathroom door behind them and then presses his ear to it.  After a moment, he steps away.

“Given a chance,” he says, just barely loud enough for Roy to hear, “I think he’ll bond with her, and that’ll solve the rest of the problem.”  He wrinkles his nose.  “Or build the rest of the house, I suppose, if we have to use your metaphor.”

“I’m terribly sorry to have imposed my metaphor on your thought process,” Roy says.

“It’s fine,” Al says, without a trace of irony, which either means that he thinks Roy’s serious, or that he’s reached a level of deadpan so profound it’s become undetectable.  “The gist of it is, take your time flossing, and we might just be in the clear.”

Roy does not point out that none of this was ever his idea, and he really shouldn’t be lumped in as an accomplice when his only involvement has been attempts to defuse the tension.

“As Riza will happily tell you in great detail,” he says, “ _no one_ takes their time with quite as much finesse as I do.”

Al smiles.  “The thought,” he says, “occurred to me.”

  


* * *

  


By the time they reemerge, Ed’s done them one better than just cuddling up with Applesauce and making his peace with her: he’s fallen asleep with a purring ball of kitten settled on the center of his chest.

The image is so cute Roy’s not sure whether to gasp and clasp his hands together under his chin or to return to the bathroom to throw up.

Al breathes a long sigh of relief, and then he takes Roy’s hand.  “Come on.  You must be exhausted after the day you’ve had.  Did they ask about your face décor?”

Roy tugs free long enough to turn off the light on Ed’s side of the bed before heading back around to indulge in the indescribable pleasure of letting Alphonse Elric slowly and deliberately divest him of his uniform.

“Apparently they were feeling just an iota too tactful to ask,” he says.  “Quite a few open stares, though.”

“Those were probably because you make it look dashing,” Al says, “and they’re either jealous or attracted or both at once.”

Roy looks at him.

Al looks back.

“I can never tell when you’re being sincere,” Roy says.

“When it’s important,” Al says, “I always tell the truth.”

Roy wants to ask why informing him of his own physical appeal qualifies as _important_ when it seems to be a fairly exclusive category.

But he also wants to sleep.

So he wraps an arm around Alphonse, kisses his forehead, and lets it be for now.

The moment they’ve climbed into bed, Ed rouses just enough to mumble something that might end with “bastard”, after which he wriggles close enough to fit himself in against Roy’s side.  Applesauce makes a faint noise of distress and then scrambles across Roy to tuck herself in under Al’s arm.  Al reaches up with his unencumbered arm to hit the light.

“Goodnight, Roy,” Al says.

“Goodnight, Alphonse,” Roy says.

“Goodnight, Brother,” Al says.

“Mmngh,” Ed says.

“Goodnight, Applesauce,” Al says.

There is a silence.

“Yes, you _are_ the cutest little sweetie-pie that ever wore a collar; yes, you _a_ —”

“Please go to sleep, Al,” Roy says.

“All _right_ ,” Al says.

Silence.

Ed snuffles.

Silence again.

Roy smiles, and breathes out slowly, and shuts his eyes.  The bruised one still throbs just a bit.  The odd thing is that he doesn’t mind at all.


End file.
